The blank document screen shone mockingly bright enough to glare into Tristan's soul. With a groan, he propped his elbows on his keyboard, dragging his fingers through his hair as he let his head sink into his hands. Was this supposed to take this long?

His office door creaked as a face poked in. "Are you still having trouble?"

More than grateful for the excuse to drag his burning eyes away from his laptop, he looked over. Constance peered around the frame, fingers delicately curled around the door just beneath the handle. A pen dangled from them; she'd gone to fetch one from the other room before rejoining him at the desk's more cluttered spot beside him, one strewn with various studying materials she'd brought over to occupy herself.

"A little," he admitted, shifting in his chair. More than a week had passed since the incident at Ace of Clubs, yet all of this still felt new, like a needle in the base of his spine that twitched at random intervals. By the time the two of them had been released from the police station that night, it had been nearing midnight, and -- for a reason he was still struggling to fathom -- he'd offered to let Constance stay at his house until morning rather than leaving her to walk home alone. She'd agreed readily, and now that single event seemed to be transforming into a regular occurrence. She was here nearly every day at some moment or another, gracing him with her quiet, ghostly company, often simply to share a silence. He was fairly sure he liked it, but even so. The clutter itched at him from the corner of his eye.

She drifted over to linger at his shoulder, frowning at the empty screen. The shame urged him to fill it, and he hurried to rest his fingers over the keys again, but still no words came. He sighed. "This is really necessary?"

"Not necessary," Constance said slowly, hand clasping the back of her own chair as she leaned against it, "but I think it'll help. Putting your feelings into words helps you to properly work out what they are in detail. That's what my therapist said, anyway." She pressed her lips together, stealing a tentative glance at him. "You... could go to see her, you know. She does the first appointment free. In case it doesn't work for you."

Something twisted in his chest, and he looked away. "Maybe." The document's glaring white blinked at him, stirring in frustration, and he shook his head. "I'll figure this out first before I start--"

The doorbell rang to cut him off. He tensed, exchanging another glance with Constance. "You want me to get it?" she asked.

"No, it's fine." Anything to get him away from the desk, at this rate. He stood, slipped out of his office, and made his way to the front door.

He only managed to pull it open halfway before he registered that the man looming over him was Otto Ratliff.

Tristan flinched, hand sliding from the door handle. His heart's pace leapt to a painfully loud, racing thud. He hadn't seen any of the others since that day, and he was quite content to keep it that way, particularly when it came to the man who might have as much right as Quinn when it came to hating him. The instinct threaded through him to grab the door and slam it shut, to press his back against it and go still until he could go back to pretending the encounter had ever happened, but Otto was already stepping into the threshold, his foot purposefully placed to keep the door from closing.

"Tristan," he began. "I, uh..."

Another step. Tristan swallowed, but there was no time to flee. The next he knew, Otto's arms were wrapping around him, pinning him against the man's chest.

Surprise whooshed out in a sharp exhale. He knew he should probably lift his own arms, but the notion didn't make it to his limbs. A few awkward seconds ticked by before the embrace was thankfully ended for him, and Otto pulled away.

"Sorry," he said. Tight sincerity scrawled a hundred apologetic lines into his expression. "I just came to say that I... Well, that I'm sorry. How are you holding up?"

"Fine," Tristan said instinctively, then scratched at his ear with a shaky hand, feeling Otto's gaze dig into him. "Not especially fine, but fine enough, I suppose."

Silence dragged claws between them as Otto continued to linger on the doorstep, clearly failing to string together his next sentence. Tristan twisted his hands together. Otto shifted from one foot to the other, then extracted something from his pocket: a small stack of ten-pound notes.

"Raphael said to give this to you. Apparently you earned it." He sighed through his nose, then offered the money out for Tristan to take. "I tried to lecture him about gambling again, but he was insistent. I suppose it's only fair we give you something, after all." He smiled, just a little. "He explained to me what happened. I know you didn't cause any harm on purpose, and I'm sorry for accusing you of it."

Tristan nodded absently, watching the bluish notes crease between his fingers. "Raphael..." He chewed his lip, searching for the right way to ask. "He's... healing, then?"

"Yes." A brightness entered Otto's eyes in response to the question. "He'll be fine. He came out of the hospital a couple of days ago." His soft smile reappeared in full, and he dug into his pocket, this time drawing out a strip of paper. "I wrote down my number for you, too. In case you'd like to visit sometime?" He laughed lightly. "I think Raphael's taken a shine to you, and it would be nice for him to have some, ah... safer friends."

It took a moment for the last sentence to sink in. He accepted the number without much thought, though his mind raced as if running nonsensical lines of code. He lifted his head, unable to shift his frown. "I'll think about it."

"Well, let me know." Otto took a step backward, then stopped, halfway though leaving. "About Quinn. Were they really..."

"They were," Tristan confirmed without fully knowing what answer he was giving. It would be true whatever. Quinn was the murderer. Quinn had lied to them. Quinn was the master of the game, but not all their plays had worked out in the end. On the very same night that he and Constance had walked free, they'd been chained with the very same handcuffs that had briefly imprisoned him and led away, darkness sunk low over their gaze.

A chill dripped down the back of Tristan's neck, and he shook his head, casting away the memory. "It doesn't matter to us now," he said. "It's in the police's hands."

Otto lingered a moment longer, chuckled to himself, then completed his exit. He stepped down from the porch. "I'll see you around, Tristan." His words themselves grinned, little pockets of delight that sounded nicer than Tristan expected.

He waited for the heavy footsteps to fade away, then pushed the door shut and folded the money neatly in half if only to occupy himself while he righted his thoughts. It kept him busy for only half a minute before he slid it into his jacket pocket, Otto's number hidden within the stack to be studied another time, but it was enough to kindle the fires of an idea that tingled at his fingertips. Briskly, he spun on his heel and headed back into his office.

Constance looked up from her work as he did so. "Who was that?"

He made straight for his chair and swung into it, knocking his mouse to wake up his laptop from its sleeping state. "Otto."

Her eyes widened. "What did he say?"

He held out a hand to suggest she stop talking for now. "Hold on." He steepled his hands on his keyboard and, finally, began typing. The words didn't come with ease, but they clicked along nonetheless, appearing on the screen in basic, ordered font. Today, I'm reminding myself that I'm just a person, he wrote. Nothing more, nothing less.

He caught Constance's eye. She smiled at him in understanding, properly for once, her teeth briefly showing as her mouth poked upward, before she went back to reading from the textbook in front of her. A calmness settled over him.

And I think I'm ready to stop being lonely.

Chapter Wordcount: 1416

Total Wordcount: 38944

And there we have it. I'm finally done, gang :D

- Pup